


Wyvern Moon, 1180

by dornishsphinx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Character Study, Gen, Microaggressions, Our House Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25447843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornishsphinx/pseuds/dornishsphinx
Summary: "From on high, flocks of wyverns roar in chorus and soar the pristine skies, heading south for the winter. Fódlan's children lend their hands to winter preparations by gathering firewood and catching fish from the rivers' cool waters."While performing his normal, self-imposed duties, Cyril encounters—and reluctantly makes—some unexpected friends.
Relationships: Cyril & Church Orphans (Fire Emblem), Cyril & Rhea (Fire Emblem)
Kudos: 27





	Wyvern Moon, 1180

There were a lot of differences between Almyra and Garreg Mach, but there were some things that stayed the same, even this far from Fódlan’s Throat. The sound of wyverns taking wing and making their way south around this time of year was one of them. 

Cyril took a moment away from chopping wood when he heard the distant roar, looking up through the foliage and catching a glimpse of familiar dark shadows passing overhead. A few leaves detached, as though the faraway wingbeats were powerful enough to knock them from their branches, and wildly curled through the air. 

One, yellow as the Leicester banner, landed on his shoulder. He brushed it off in annoyance, letting it join the rest on the ground.

Leaves transforming from vibrant green to sickly gold was still foreign to him, even after watching it happen over the previous few years. There was more of a difference between here and the lands of House Goneril than there was between the latter and his own birthplace: Goneril, though they’d not seemed to realise it, had pretty much the same brusque landscape, flora and fauna as western Almyra. 

Given the way their knights talked about Almyra, though, they’d no doubt be quite offended to have it pointed out. And it wasn’t as though he went looking for beatings or anything, so he never had. It wasn’t as though he cared enough about Almyra to defend her.

He went back to the logs, but he couldn’t help his thoughts drifting back to the roar. He even paused to look up every so often and check, wondering if there were more silent shadows passing through the sky, but it seemed that little flurry hadn’t been the start of one of those giant rushes that could turn even midday plains black as night. 

He wondered if the stable hands here also had to tie theirs up so they wouldn’t try and join the migration. Back when he’d been charged with taking care of the army’s wyverns, there were always those loudmouths who would boast of their fearsome mounts that would bite off any hand other than their own strong, commanding one and rip through all but the strongest of bonds. 

Of course, those wyverns that they’d called ferocious and barely tame had always made excited little chirps when they smelt the treats he had hidden away in his pockets. 

He did not miss Almyra. It felt like admitting to missing anything about Almyra would be a sin in the eyes of the monks and cooks and other servants, but despite their stares and presumptions, he really didn’t. Shamir didn’t seem to care about Dagda much either—or at least she didn’t mention it much, even when some of the students and other staff would squint at her with funny expressions in the same way pretty much everyone did to him—so he thought she might understand. 

Lady Rhea wouldn’t have minded if he did, of course; she was ever benevolent and kind, the perfect representative of her Fódlan goddess. It was just the place where he was born and orphaned through stupid skirmishes with no purpose, where he’d been left on a borderland battlefield, orphaned and alone: too much of a burden for the same clan that hadn’t considered getting all its young men killed through stupid shows of bravery a needless burden too.

So, he didn’t miss Almyra. But maybe he missed the wyverns a little.

There were more than a few wyverns around Garreg Mach, of course; the students were always in the sky, zooming around on them or the graceful white pegasi which were just as common around these parts, and Lady Rhea’s own right hand had one of his own, a beautiful creature with a long and graceful wingspan. They had caretakers of their own, though, who always got mad if he tried to go in and help with grooming or feeding them. Some even acted like he was going to hobble their wings and snap their claws off, like he was some saboteur, vanguard of an invasion from the east, whose dastardly plots only they could see through.

It was all a little overdramatic, in his opinion, and such attitudes didn’t stop him from trying. He didn’t care what they thought, only what Lady Rhea did. She was the one who let him stay here and had always ignored such comments and suspicions, not giving them the littlest bit of credence if she heard them at all. Doing his best to tidy up around the monastery, including the wyvern pens, was just a part of his debt to her. She’d already done so much for him, a nobody. Noticing and taking him in from among the other Almyran children House Goneril ground into the dirt; taking the time to see him every day to give him his daily tasks with a kind expression; placing him with Shamir for archery lessons despite the side-eyes and concern of those around her about letting an Almyran in the heart of Fódlan’s centre of faith have access to their weaponry and training; even suggesting that he might be allowed to take actual full training like the other students should he wish it and the teachers agree, despite not having been officially admitted to the Officer’s Academy: even one of those acts of benevolence was more than he’d received in his entire lifetime, and here, she’d bestowed them all.

And if being around wyverns and getting to give them those sneaky pats and treats again when the stable hands weren’t looking made a little spark of warmth flood through his chest, he didn’t need to admit it to anyone. All he had to say was that he could ride one into battle in defence of Lady Rhea and her monastery if it was required of him, and receive a thoughtful, quiet look from that silent young teacher in return.

Even so, like the leaves and the cold, biting winds blowing down from Faerghus as the year began to draw to a close, Fódlan and its customs were still fairly foreign to him. It was hard to keep them all straight like people who’d grown up with them could, even after having been here for a few years. Normally when some festival was happening, he’d disappear off somewhere to do his tasks alone, diligently, so he didn’t embarrass Lady Rhea by stepping out of time or making some blunder. Not disrupting the high days and holidays was the least he could do, given the debt he owed.

He couldn’t avoid people all month long, though. And so, when he heard a bunch of the other orphans—and recognised them as the lazy ones who barely did the chores they were assigned, made trouble for the knights with their mischief, and clamoured around Prince Dimitri for lessons in the sword and lance with no shame at all—traipsing into the Sealed Forest, confusion and annoyance welled up inside him in equal measure. A scowl appeared on his face and, deliberately turning away, he went back to chopping firewood.

“Oh! Look, it’s that Almyran boy!” one said, loudly enough for him to be heard. “What’s he doing all the way out here?”

“He’s collecting firewood, obviously! Like us.”

Wow, their voices were grating. He continued ignoring them and chopping.

“We should invite him to join us, he looks lonely over there…”

“It’s not like he joins in with anything else, though. Like when the Prince offered those lessons.”

“That’s because he’s  _ Almyran _ , silly.” The girl said it in a half-hushed tone, but it was still clearly audible. “They can’t use swords or lances like proper knights. Just axes and bows. That’s what mother always told—”

The voice cut off.

He didn’t really care enough to defend Almyran swordsmanship, given he wouldn’t exactly be able to prove an exception to said general consensus: his sword skills were non-existent; his bow skills were getting better and better under Shamir’s guidance; and having an axe in his hand was second nature after a life spent chopping wood for fires and the few years of being taught how to swing one by the Almyran army.

It would probably be best if nobody realised where those particular skills had come from, of course. And Shamir’s one-on-one training was far better than what he’d got as part of a group of young orphans picked up by the western forces to be thrown at Fódlan’s Throat and struck down by the Valkyries and their terrifying young lord.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t join in with anything else either!”

“Hey, enough talking about that,” said one of the others. “Look, he can probably hear us anyway—”

“Yeah, I can,” said Cyril.

The voices all stopped. He turned around, brow furrowed and axe still in hand.

“Don’t get in my way. I have work to do.”

With that, he turned right back around and got to chopping. If he didn’t send them packing, no doubt they’d spend the entire time lazing around and goofing off like always, and being loud and annoying.

One of the kids stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder to make him turn back around. She wore an aggravated look on her face, still chubby and round with baby fat.

“You can’t tell us  _ not  _ to do extra! I heard the maids complaining that you do extra all the time just to make everyone else look bad!” The girl’s teeth gritted together. “And it’s the Wyvern Moon already! We’re supposed to be helping out with getting firewood for our— for the cold months. You can’t stop us doing what we’ve always done just because we don’t have any families left to do it for!”

There was a long pause as, behind her, the other two boys’ faces paled and they looked down at the carpet of red, rotting leaves nearly swallowing their feet. Then one of them looked up stubbornly and made forward.

“Yeah! What do you want us to do, nothing? We’re not useless!”

“No,” he said, annoyed, “You’re worse than useless. You keep making trouble for the knights, even though they’re there to help people, and keep wasting time they could be spending on more important things. Lady Rhea’s taken you in and been kind to ya. You shouldn’t be making trouble for her!”

There was a clamour of protest.

“You think we don’t know that?”

“The Shining Knights are the ones who brought me back to the monastery when… but it was an accident this time!”

“Prince Dimitri gave us some sword lessons, and we were trying them out, but then we smashed some windows, and the knights got mad. But the Prince smashes things all the time and he never gets told off!”

He scoffed.

“Oh, right,  _ this time.  _ Are you saying it’s a coincidence that you’re never not getting told off whenever I pass by the cathedral?”

One frowned. “What would you be doing in the cathedral? I thought Almyrans were heretics who believe in air spirits.”

The other boy shook his head patronisingly. “No, stupid, that’s  _ Brigid _ . And they believe in a whole lot of them, not just air ones. That foreigner with the weird mark under her eye was talking about it to me. At least that’s what I think she was saying, I couldn’t understand her all that well. Almyrans believe in…” He cocked his head to the side. “Something. Or nothing. I don’t know that much about them that wasn’t from the troubadour who’d come by our town, and she never talked about what they  _ believed _ in.” He punched one fist into his other hand with a bright expression. “Just how tough their warriors are! Hey, is it true you’re all better at flying than actually walking?”

He was growing more and more impatient.

“I said I’m busy. Chop wood if you’re going to, or just go.”

With that, he turned back to the hunk of wood in front of him and got back to chopping, letting his mind sink into the task like it was a bed and he was hoping for a dreamless sleep.

Cyril had seen more of the cathedral than these three ever would through his self-imposed duties. He’d clambered up to the clerestory several times to clean a hundred images in stained glass of what he presumed must be Lady Rhea’s goddess and saints and heroes: as dragons curling through the air, giant, imposing and white; as warriors with long braided hair, each section made from a little chip of pale jade mosaic. The sun had shone through them, reflecting the holy images onto the opposite wall and the floor and even onto the worshippers gathered in the nave. He’d been behind the altar and seen so many strange and holy objects that he couldn’t name, in gold and silver and mysterious metals.

Once, he’d even snuck in the Holy Tomb to brush away the dust and clear away the mildew clinging onto the floor and walls, growing so quick and dense it seemed to give a green tinge to the air. The first box he’d dusted had revealed a strange symbol, and then the next, and the next. They were like leaves, he remembered thinking, their thin, vein-like lines curling into similar but distinct forms.

And then Lady Rhea had been right behind him, her face drawn and eyes blank, as beautiful and cold as if she were carved from marble. Her pale eyes had been fixed where his hand lay on one of the weird lined stones. A jolt of fear had run through him at her expression. When he’d explained himself, that he’d come down to get rid of the dust and growth on the graves, the certainty he’d be punished had weighed down so heavily on his shoulders that he couldn’t even flinch when her hand had moved. Instead of striking him as he’d come to expect from his superiors in the Almyran army and the taskmasters of House Goneril, however, he’d been astonished to feel the hand rest on his shoulder. It had been the only time she’d ever touched him; her hands had been oddly calloused, and her grip stronger than he’d expected from their slender appearance. Her usual kind smile had disappeared into a tense line, a slash across her face.

And then she had spoken, with a small shake of the head. It had made the lilies on her headdress shiver ever so slightly, and the black tassels shake.

_ That is unnecessary. You… are but a child. These are not your burden or responsibility to bear. _

Her eyes, that same shade of sunlight lancing through green glass he’d seen in the saints and warriors in the clerestory, had held so much mourning in them that it almost made tears spring forth from his own long-dry eyes.

The songs of Almyra weren’t like the ones they sang in the cathedral, high and strung like harps. Even now, after some time lurking around the cathedral watching the choir practise, he couldn’t quite figure out how to twist his throat around the long, particular syllables they favoured, nor repeat the harmonies they’d memorised. He couldn’t even grasp how to pronounce some of the names they kept adding in: Noa was fine, and Seiros and Sothis were practically the same word, a hiss and a hiss at both ends like a serpent’s flicking tongue, but Cichol, Cethleann, Macuil, Indech, Timotheos, Aubin…

He didn’t really get who they were, but after that meeting in the Holy Tomb, it had started to feel important that he tried to wrap his tongue around them at least, even if understanding and writing Fódlan’s incomprehensible script with all its extra letters added everywhere for no reason would take time he didn’t have. Lady Rhea’s face always seemed so at peace when she came by the cathedral and heard singing. He’d overheard her singing too sometimes, when he came to clean her room and the Starlight Balcony, with her lovely voice, with sweet, sad notes, not one of them out of place. He imagined he might make her frown if he let in a discordant note. She was so very kind, so no doubt she’d act like it was fine, but the idea of her smile breaking made his chest cold.

A loud whine from beside him brought him out of the reverie.

“Ugh, I’m so  _ tired _ . My arms hurt.”

He looked down at his own arms, which only ached a little after a full afternoon’s labour. He hadn’t even really been paying attention to what he was doing, he was so used to the motions needed; a swing and a  _ thunk _ and throwing the pieces over to the pile.

“Hey! Don’t get so complacent,” complained the other boy. “We said we were going fishing after this too.” He blinked, and swivelled his head over to Cyril. “Oh, actually, do you wanna come with? It’ll be fun, I swear. We can have a competition over who’ll get the biggest one, like they had for St Cethleann’s. Only the four of us will be competing, unless that girl obsessed with fish wants to join in, so you’ll get a chance at second place.”

“Second place?” groused the girl. “You seriously think you’ll be first? You’re terrible at fishing!”

“Nuh-uh!”

Cyril, realising they would just take ignoring them as acceptance and drag him along anyway, butted in. “It’s my job to get firewood.”

“Uh, and we’ve got it?” said the girl, with a confused look on her face, though then she got an enthusiastic look on her face and bumped her fist into the air. “I’ll bet it’s more than the  _ whole _ Kingdom could find a use for.”

Cyril looked at the pile of wood. He would not. Even so, it was enough for the monastery. If he overdid it, there wouldn’t be room for it all in the storage rooms, while any rain would ruin those pieces left outside. And fishing—well, they could do with ingredients in the kitchens, given how ravenous the students and soldiers were.

Even so, he didn’t like being around other people. When he wasn’t a threat, he was an oddity or source of information, like he’d be happy to explain all about Almyra, that dull and lonely place which would have been just as happy to see him dead as alive, full of bare plains and orphans scattered to the wind by an uncaring king and stupid old customs. At least Lady Rhea might be sad if he died, if only for a little while. He was only a little person, after all, and she and her world were immense on a scale he could not imagine or live himself.

But he was done with the firewood, and that was the last of the tasks he’d been given. Even if there were others—and competition—involved, it would still just be another task he could do for the monastery. Right?

“Fine. I’ll come fishing.”

Surprise rippled across them, but they hefted the firewood up on their backs with bickering and complaining rather than trying to leave it behind or shove it onto him like he thought they might have. As they made their way back to Garreg Mach, the girl started up a song about a king of lions. It was a little less perfect and polished than the music of the cathedral, her voice scratchier and without the notes that lasted longer than it took a season to change. The sound of it was quite nice.

That night, as he returned to his room and his bed, he blinked in surprise to see a bouquet of white lilies, just like the ones Lady Rhea wore in her hair, at the foot of it. There was a small note with the squiggles that made up Fódlan’s writing system lying beside them. He peered at it, as though he might somehow be able to decipher them just by staring, before giving up and putting it back down. Maybe he should keep it on him and ask Lysithea what she’d written when they next bumped into each other.

He picked the lilies up and sniffed them. Their smell wasn’t that strong, but he didn’t really mind: he spent so much time on his other chores that his own room always smelt stale, so it would make for a change as he slept. He held onto them for a while longer before placing them gently at the foot of the bed and turning in for the night.

It hadn’t been a bad way to spend his birthday, he supposed. 


End file.
